


kintsugi

by merrywil



Category: Doctor Strange (2016), Doctor Strange (Comics), Marvel (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Cloak of Levitation (Marvel), M/M, Sad with a Happy Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-26
Updated: 2019-10-26
Packaged: 2021-01-04 01:54:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21189623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/merrywil/pseuds/merrywil
Summary: Everyone has a breaking point.  Illyana returns home to find that Stephen has reached his.  Only a desperate gamble may be their last chance to save him from his own mind.  Established Wongrange.





	kintsugi

**Author's Note:**

> My personal HC got a bit excited about Stephen, Wong, and Illyana as a happy little family. This is not a terribly happy story, however, although it does have a happy ending (the world is awful enough without sad endings). I imagine that sometimes it’s hard to have not just a job but a vocation that demands everything from you, over and over. Sometimes it’s also okay to say you need to step back, for now and maybe forever.

A pall hung over the New York Sanctum, as if the building itself was holding its breath. Illyana Rasputin, Master of the Mystic Arts, glanced around the foyer as the heavy oak door thudded closed behind her. She let her duffel fall to the soft carpet, scuffing her boots against the mat in a vain effort to remove some of the grime of travel. 

Nothing looked obviously out of the ordinary. The books and vases and minor relics stood in their places along the shelves and armoires, the comfortable armchairs and heavy curtains were free of dust. Sunlight streamed through the Seal of the Vishanti far overhead. And yet, there was a vibrancy to the old house that was somehow missing.

“Master Wong? Master Strange?” Illyana paused, hearing nothing but the faintest echo of her own voice. Not even a creak from the foundations settling broke the stillness. “Cloak?”

Leaving her bag where it had fallen, Illyana tread slowly down the main corridor. She realized that her hand was raised in the beginnings of a shielding gesture. She forced herself to lower it, laughing softly. She was just trigger happy from her time outside the Sanctums.

Still, Illyana nearly shifted into battle stance at the whistle that sounded from behind the closed kitchen door. Her heart thundering in her ears, she pushed the door open slowly. Steam from a tea kettle boiling on the stove swirled up towards the ceiling.

“Master Wong!” Surprise colored her voice, at finding one of the objects of her quest. Why had the librarian not answered the door?

“Illyana. It is good to see you.” Wong smiled at her warmly, lifting the kettle with the aid of a colorful pot holder. “My apologies for not answering the door. The gong has been disengaged for now, but I scried that it was you. I knew that you would find your way here.”

“You know me too well, Master Wong.” Illyana felt her eyes widen with anticipation as they lit upon a covered plate. The aroma was heavenly, and familiar.

“Pryaniki?” She could not quite keep her glee from her voice. It had been a very long time since she had enjoyed tea that did not come in a bag, let alone her favorite sweets.

“Of course. Come, sit, and tell me about your travels.”

So Illyana did, curling one leg underneath her as she ensconced herself in one of the worn wooden chairs. She nibbled a cookie, spice and honey bursting like fireworks on her tongue, while she told her old mentor about her time spent stationed in northern Africa. It was a region rich in mystical history, and a wellspring of innate natural power. Her training with Wong had made her qualified to act as assistant to a Master conducting archeological research in the area, although their work was complicated by many factors, the weather and political climate among them.

Wong seemed fascinated by her report, and listened avidly as she sipped her tea and rambled about the past two years. He made pause long enough to share a cup with her, then rose to refill and replace the kettle. Two slices of bread were retrieved from the Sanctum’s temperamental and slightly magical refrigerator, and placed into the toaster.

During a lull in their conversation, Illyana took the opportunity to examine the older master. He was still every inch the scholar, asking concise but pertinent questions about their findings and hypotheses. It had been almost a year since they had last spent time together, although not by either of their choices. Duty.

And Wong had changed, sometime in that year. His posture was still ramrod straight, almost military, with the exception of a slight slump to his shoulders. He had lost weight, not much, but enough for Illyana to notice it. But most alarmingly, although also the least obvious change, there was a hesitation, a sluggishness to his movements. Illyana had trouble deciding whether it was uncertainty or exhaustion, or perhaps a little of both. But in either case, she disliked it.

She was drawn out of her study by the whistle of the kettle, and almost immediately after the chime of the toaster. She watched as Wong plated the toast, and poured the kettle’s contents into a fresh pot. As he poured, sunlight glinted off the dull brass band that subtly adorned the ring finger of his left hand. A ring whose mate could invariably be found on a simple brass chain around the neck of one Sorcerer Supreme.

And on that note, “Master Wong? Is Master Strange around today?”

As her American friends liked to say, bingo. Wong stiffened, almost imperceptibly, but enough that the kettle jerked and water spilled along the side of the teapot. The other sorcerer’s hand was shaking minutely as he returned it to the stove, then retrieved a cloth to carefully sop up the hot liquid. 

Without turning to face Illyana, he spoke. “Did they tell you, at Kamar-Taj, what happened?”

She shook her head, tendrils of dread creeping around her heart at his monotone. “No. Only that there had been an incident. Or accident? They were very vague. Vague enough that I was worried, and came here as soon as I was released.”

Wong nodded, and exhaled, almost as if bracing himself. “It will be easier to show you. Come.”

\--

Walking down the long hallway felt to Illyana somehow like walking to an execution. They had ascended the main staircase in silence. At first, she thought they might be heading to the library, but instead they had turned into the residential corridor. Illyana wished she could think of anything to break the silence.

She nearly heaved a sigh of relief when Wong began speaking, his almost conversational tone at odds with his words. “It happened about three months ago now, nearly four. It seemed like a relatively routine mission. Eminiar requested the aid of several of their allied Sorcerers Supreme to deal with a magical ailment affecting their planet.”

Wong paused for a moment in his speech, although his steps trod forwards unerringly. His eyes were unfocused, as if looking into the past instead of at the present. “I spoke with Stephen after he had been there for several hours. He seemed tired, concerned that there was more going on than the Eminiaran sorcerers had led us to believe. But otherwise fine. Then we did not hear from him for nearly a day.”

Wong stopped. Their journey had ended in front of a sturdy but unremarkable door. Illyana had not lived in the Sanctum for several years, although she tried to visit regularly, particularly around the holidays. But she immediately recognized their destination.

“Master Wong?”

In reply, Wong pushed down on the handle, opening the door to a spacious though simply furnished bedroom. Spires of nearly black oak stood at each corner of the venerable four poster, contrasting slightly with the simple wool quilt that covered the bed. There was a small table, and a dresser of equally dark wood. Curtains fluttered in a gentle breeze that entered through the open window.

On the table, several leather-bound tomes were stacked in a haphazard pile. A dainty tin watering can sat next to them, obviously intended for the potted plant whose greenery spilled rebelliously over the edges of its container. 

Stephen sat in a worn but comfortable-looking straight-backed armchair to the left of the table, in a patch of warm afternoon sunlight. For a moment, Illyana thought his lap was covered with a throw or blanket, but then one corner of the ruby red fabric lifted to wave slightly in greeting. Stephen’s hands were laid atop the Cloak, and as always they were wracked by fine tremors.

But unlike any time Illyana could recall, at least when she had seen the older master awake, his hands were not busy with a spell, or holding a book that he was reading. His eyes were open, not closed in sleep or as when astral projecting. But they were vacant, staring purposelessly towards the open window. For as long as she had known him, Stephen Strange had been a vibrant presence. Now there was no spark, no recognition of or response to their presence.

“One of Eminiar’s people brought him back. I was here when it happened, but apparently they appeared in Kamar-Taj, and left him standing there without a single word. An apprentice found me with the news just minutes later.”

Wong was busying himself with setting the teapot and plate of toast amidst the chaos of books and green fronds. Hesitantly, Illyana let her magic reach out, and seconds later recoiled with a nearly physical jolt.

“Master Wong!” She could not help the surprise, and despair, that seeped into her voice, master or no.

“I know.” Wong merely looked immensely saddened, despondent resignation lacing his words. “He isn’t there.”

Carefully, the librarian reached out, lifting one of Stephen’s hands to place a partially full teacup within its loose grasp. “He eats and drinks if food is given him. He does what he is told, and goes where he is directed. But nothing of his soul, his aura, remains.”

Illyana watched as her sometime mentor lifted the teacup, drinking rotely, like a machine set on autopilot. Stephen’s eyes never left the window, nor did his expression change. When a more pronounced tremor than usual shook his hand, sending hot tea splattering against his wrist, he did not cry out. He did not react at all. The Cloak reached up gently, and wiped away the offending droplets.

When Illyana turned back to look at Wong, her heart nearly shattered into a thousand pieces. The look that the other sorcerer directed at his partner was one of utter torment, of a helplessness beyond imagining. 

“Master.” Illyana paused; somehow the formality of their early association did not fit this moment. “Wong. I’m so sorry.”

Stepping forwards, fearful of what the other sorcerer’s reaction might be but compelled to comfort him regardless, Illyana wrapped her arms around her old mentor. Wong stiffened, but did not push her away.

Illyana had seen Master Strange cry less than a handful of times over the years. Once when a novice perished in a freak accident at Kamar-Taj. Once when Master Wong was badly injured, and it was uncertain if he would survive. And once in the aftermath of a hardwon battle, when he was so magically exhausted that he could barely stand, yet still stumbled from person to person to check for survivors. But in all the years of her acquaintance, she had never seen Master Wong shed a tear.

She did not see it now either. But as the shoulder of her robe grew damp and Wong’s body shook with completely silent sobs, Illyana would have given anything to fix this.

\--

Unsurprisingly, Wong did not cede his infamous control for very long. No matter how human, to waste time mourning the past was impractical. Seated near the small table in chairs that Wong had conjured, they watched as Stephen finished his tea and toast, then resumed his vacant contemplation of the open window.

“What have you tried?” Illyana watched as the Cloak carefully shook itself free of crumbs.

Wong sighed. “Nearly everything we could think of. The healing wing has made a thorough study. I’ve consulted the other masters, and poured through every book on the topic that I could find. Christine can find nothing medically wrong. I even requested an audience with any other Sorcerers Supreme I could contact, but those who participated in the mission on Eminiar did not respond. Something happened there, that no one wishes to talk about.”

For a moment Wong fell silent, but Illyana did not speak. She had a sense the other master was not quite finished. Although she also sensed that he needed a moment to gird himself against what he was to say next.

“There is...one option, that we have not explored. From the outside, there is only so far one can reach. But if someone were to enter Stephen’s consciousness completely, perhaps they could find a trace of what happened, or where he has gone.” Wong did not need to add the conclusion of that thought: if he still existed at all.

“So why then has this not been done?” Illyana had a guess, but Wong’s reply confirmed her suspicions.

“Because it is...not without risk. The caster would need to sever all ties with their own body. So an anchor is needed. And even then...it would be like jumping into the ocean in search of someone who was lost at sea, with nothing but a life preserver and no idea of their location. Perhaps you might find them. Perhaps, if you did, other searchers would then be able to find you. But it would be very, very easy to get lost forever yourself.”

“And the other masters forbade you to do this, nor could you find anyone to be your anchor.” Wong nodded, shoulders slumped ever so slightly in dejection.

Illyana’s heart ached to see it. For a moment, she gazed at the sun dappled leaves that rustled softly outside the open window. Then she clapped her hands resolutely against her thighs, sending a small plume of dust into the air to glitter in the late afternoon light.

“Then let’s do it. What do you need to complete the ritual?”

Wong looked at her aghast, hope and something else--guilt, perhaps?--warring on his face. “Illyana. No. I cannot ask this of you. And if Stephen were present, he would not allow you to jeopardize yourself in this fashion.”

But Illyana was already rising, hands coming to settle on her hips. “And we both know that Stephen is the most hypocritical person in the world when it comes to putting oneself in danger for others’ sake. It’s been four months, and he isn’t getting any better. This is not life, for either of you.”

Wong cast disconsolate eyes to the floor. “And I know in my heart that soon it will be too late.”

“Then let me help. I owe so much to you both, although this is not repayment. Just what I know either of you would do without hesitation if it was me, or anyone else.”

Wong reached out a hand, gently encircling Stephen’s wrist with his fingers. His thumb stroked, featherlight, along a silvery scar. Stephen’s eyes never deviated from the window. Finally, Wong nodded his acquiescence.

“You have travelled far, and should rest. This evening, we will make our attempt. And may the Vishanti watch over us all.”

\--

Illyana found Wong on the Sanctum’s roof just as the sun was beginning to sink behind the city’s skyline. Below them, the streets thrummed with cars and pedestrians, heading home from work or out to join New York’s nightlife. The air was cooling but not yet chill, and a faint breeze stirred the leaves of the potted herbs that Illyana remembered tending from her earliest days of residency here. Far overhead, the contrails of passing air traffic crisscrossed the sunset’s brilliant reds and oranges, before disappearing into the night’s encroaching darkness.

Wong finished sketching a sigil in chalk on the flagstones of the rooftop garden, then pushed to his feet. Candles flickered in the slight breeze. Although presumably he could not feel it, Stephen had been covered with a warm blanket where he was laid on a low pallet in the midst of the chalk lines. The Cloak hovered with obvious anxiety just outside the circle, twisting its ends together in a fair imitation of a human wringing its hands.

Wong answered Illyana’s curious glance. “Unfortunately, the relic’s innate magic would be disruptive to the ritual. And the Cloak will watch over us, on this plane at least.”

She nodded. “Why the roof?”

For a moment, Wong bowed his head, almost as if ashamed of his choice. “Stephen...always loved it here. And if this doesn’t work, there is a very high likelihood that neither of us will wake up. So I thought, if it fails, at least we will be in a place that brought him peace.”

“Oh, Master Wong.” Illyana quickly embraced her mentor, taking care not to disturb his handiwork. Then she released him, instead intentionally focusing all of her attention on the chalk runes at her feet.

Illyana studied the concentric circles carefully, noting with admiration if not complete understanding the precise intricacy of the sketched symbols. Wong waved her to a bare patch of stone immediately opposite Stephen’s body from his own position. Illyana watched as the older sorcerer sank to sit cross legged, and then imitated him. Almost immediately, she could feel the chill bite of the stones seep through her leggings.

Illyana took a deep breath. “So. Tell me what I am to do.”

Wong’s face was as serious and composed as if she was still an apprentice, and he was discussing her daily lessons. “I will begin my search. I do not know how long it will take, or what I may encounter. Your job is to watch for my signal, to pull us both out. I cannot say what form this signal will take precisely, but you should know it when you see it.”

Illyana fought the urge to grimace. That was rather vague, even as the mystic arts went. But she wasn’t about to introduce any doubt at this stage. “Okay. Got it. Sit here, try not to freeze, and wait for your locator beacon to go off.”

She smiled bravely at the other master. “Let’s get started then. You have a very large ocean to search, and one very lost sorcerer to bring home.”

\--

Wong opened his eyes, then blinked them against the sunlight. It was the warm, honey-gold sunlight unique to late summer and early autumn. All around him, he could hear the chirping of birds, and quiet, rhythmic susurrus of crickets. Leaves, rapidly changing from summer’s green to the reds and browns of fall, rippled overhead. The scent of freshly mown hay was overwhelming, although a hint of ripening apples wove its way through at times.

Reaching up, Wong ran a finger across the glossy skin of one such apple, where it dangled among the fading foliage around his head. Like the rest of the sensations bombarding him, the touch certainly felt real. He shook his head in wonder, then glanced around. 

To his left, drying cornstalks stretched to the horizon, their broad leaves whispering in the faintest afternoon breeze. To his right, neat rows of trees obscured his view. Behind him, a deserted dirt road twisted away until it vanished around a bend. Before him, the same road led towards a barn, and a quaint clapboard farmhouse.

Wong let his feet carry him where they willed, which was towards the farmstead ahead. He found Stephen sitting in the bed of a rusting pick-up, long legs dangling and nose ensconced in a book.

“Wong!” Stephen’s delight certainly sounded genuine, as did his surprise.

“Stephen.” 

The entire situation felt entirely surreal, which of course it was. There was no pick-up, no farmstead with its orchard and hay fields. This was entirely a construct of Stephen’s mind. At least it had been easy enough to find the other sorcerer, astonishingly so. A part of Wong wanted to hope that it would be just as easy to show him the way back, but something stirred uneasily in his gut.

For now, Wong decided to play along, as Mister Parker would put it. “It’s been awhile, Stephen. How have you been?”

“Has it been?” For a moment, Stephen looked confused, but then he shook his head slightly and smiled. “I’ve been well.”

And he did look well, Wong realized. Gone were the dark circles under his eyes, the slightly too prominent hollows in his cheeks. His hands shook, but only barely. With a pang, Wong realized that Stephen looked happier and healthier than he had in months, perhaps even years.

Decisively, Stephen snapped his book closed. “Would you like some tea?” 

At Wong’s affirmative nod, he slid easily off the bed of the truck. Waving a hand for the other sorcerer to follow, Stephen set off towards the porch of the farmhouse. The worn wooden boards that formed the porch’s steps creaked beneath Wong’s boots as he followed, catching the edge of the screen door with one hand.

He stepped through the door, and into a simply furnished flat. Cheap bookshelves, their boards made of pressed pulp, groaned beneath the weight of more textbooks than they had the ability to bare. A rumpled quilt was tossed haphazardly over the mattress of a low iron-framed bed, and the room’s only table was piled with loose sheets of paper, yet more textbooks, and a half-eaten apple.

Stephen rummaged in the oft-painted cupboard for a moment, before emerging with two mismatched coffee mugs and a tea kettle. The latter he filled with water from the kitchen faucet, which continued to drip long after he had placed the kettle on the ancient gas stove. Task done, he paused for a moment, gazing out the window to the right of the stove. It was an overcast day outside, and the faintest hum of city traffic could be heard from far below.

Wong flipped closed the uppermost text laid on the table. Da Vinci’s Vitruvian man stared back at him, along with the words “Atlas of Human Anatomy.” A suspicion was forming, niggling half-coalesced at the back of his mind. He opened his mouth to speak.

The whistle of the tea kettle cut him off, although it had been scarcely a minute (surely?) since Stephen had placed the kettle on the stove. Without any wasted movement, the water was poured into the two mugs, and store-bought bags of tea began to steep. Stephen smiled, although this time perhaps it did not reach his eyes (had it before?).

“Come. We’ll drink on the porch.” Wong had a moment to wonder how the highrise studio apartment might have a porch, before he followed Stephen through a nondescript wooden door set in the white-painted wall.

\--

And directly into a tea room at Kamar-Taj. The sweet scent of rhododendron blossoms lent the afternoon a subtle perfume. Their riotous white and purple and red colors were anything but subtle, particularly against the greys and browns of the rocky hillside. This room opened onto a covered portico, with a scattering of low tables and merrily blazing braziers.

Now Wong was certain in his suspicions, although he did not speak as he followed Stephen to one of the tables, sinking to join him on the floor cushions. When Wong looked up, he found the other man contemplating him sadly. With a start, he realized that Stephen’s fingers were absent-mindedly playing with a bronze ring on a chain about his neck. He did not think it had been there before.

“You’ve already guessed, haven’t you?”

Wong nodded, not looking away. “Yes. These are places that you’ve felt at peace. Sanctuaries, although that never lasts.”

“Here it can.” Stephen looked down into his mug of tea, as the steam spiralled upwards to form ghostly patterns in the air. “Kamar-Taj, my apartment in medical school, even my childhood home...I can step from one to the other in an instant.”

For a moment, Wong allowed himself the luxury of delaying his true purpose. But he had to ask. “And you do not put the Sanctum on that list?”

Stephen smiled, as though he knew instantly what question Wong was really asking. “It is not necessarily a place, but the people in it that create a sanctuary. I think I’ve tried, and to be honest I thought I’d succeeded when I first saw you. But it seems that conjuring physical comforts is the limit of what my mind is able, or willing, to do.”

Wong paused for a moment, watching the swallows flit from beneath the rafters and the clouds that sailed overhead. But he could not afford to delay, not if they were to have any hope of success.

“Tell me what happened, Stephen. Otherwise how can I help?” Stephen’s eyes were as blue as the summer sky.

“No one can help.” The anguish in his words would have been enough to shatter Wong’s heart into a thousand pieces, if it hadn’t already done so four months ago.

“Tell me. Please.”

Stephen took a deep breath. Then he began. “We arrived at Eminiar, four other Sorcerers Supreme and myself. We had no idea what we would find, only that they had requested our aid due to a weakness in their world’s magic…”

\--

_ The magic of the planet was failing, that much was readily obvious when they arrived. There was a sickly yellow miasma visible to all that could see it. It wrapped like a cloying, choking fog around the dead trees and throughout the dusty streets. _

_ They were greeted by a representative of the world, which had no Sorcerer Supreme of its own but did have a group of magic users not dissimilar to the Masters of the Mystic Arts on Earth. Here magic was practiced openly, although still only by a small portion of the population. The representative was grateful for their assistance, and they swiftly made plans to travel through the city to the site at which the majority of their rituals took place. _

_ The city was a beautiful place, at least to those whose third eye was not open. Yet Stephen could not help but feel it was eerily subdued, as they hurried along the quiet streets. Occasionally, they passed a citizen, but surprisingly few. And all of these walked with their eyes studiously trained to the pavement, shoulders hunched and steps hurried despite the pleasantness of the day. _

_ The ritual site itself was a thing of architectural splendor. Marble columns soared towards the heavens. The surrounding gardens were marvels of horticulture, and the walkways and collonades pristine. The representative escorted them quickly inside, and Stephen, who had always been too busy with his career to explore the world, could not help but stare at the gilded fixtures and artistic carvings that adorned the temple’s interior. _

_ Reaching out to the world’s magic here, where such a rich history of arcane rituals had been established, was an easy task. It was punishing work, but they were able to cleanse the planet’s ties to its dimensional energies. Some were oddly weakened, and Stephen noticed the glances that his fellows shared with intrigue and concern. But these too they shored up, weaving new connections with all the deftness and artistry of long experience. _

_ They were all exhausted by the time their task was finished, but Stephen was satisfied in a job well done. He was chatting pleasantly with one of his colleagues, whom he had not seen since a rather unfortunate encounter involving tentacles and fluorescent pink goo, as they slowly made their way back through the city. _

_ He almost missed it, it happened so rapidly. A little child (girl? Boy? Beneath the worn rags it was impossible to tell the stick-thin figure’s gender) ran out into the street, in pursuit of an errant ball. Another child, this one slightly taller but no less emaciated, followed to take the younger’s arm and gently but quickly lead them back into the alley’s shadows. Stephen stopped, his colleague turning to look back at him curiously. He took a step towards the alley, and the planet’s representative called after him. _

_ “Master Strange! This way, please.” _

_ “I just wanted to take a quick look. Those kids did not look well. I was a doctor, maybe I can help. Or perhaps you could take them to a city clinic?” _

_ The Eminiaran sorcerer’s response was enough to set full alarm bells ringing, as the vague unease Stephen had been feeling since their arrival flared. “They are just street urchins. Always sick with something, and intruding,” here the sorcerer glared briefly at the shadows, “where they are not welcome. Please, let me escort you back to the city center, so that you can return to your homes with our heartfelt thanks.” _

_ Stephen nodded, and the representative sent him a sickenly saccharine and obviously fake smile. As soon as the group began moving again, Stephen pivoted and jogged into the alley. He could hear the startled calls for him to return, but ignored them. _

_ The alley twisted and turned, and Stephen knew it would be easy enough for him to miss the children. So he let the arcane energies of the place guide him, though it ached just the slightest bit to use more magic when already they had expended so much today.  _

_ Suddenly, the alley spilled out into what Stephen at first thought was an open air market. There were stalls and tents, a riot of smells and sounds and colors. The air was filled with cries and the general hubbub of a large group of people moving in an enclosed space. But Stephen quickly realized that the cries were not shouts of greeting, or wares being sold. Rather, many were wails of delirium, of pain and despair. _

_ This was not a market, although perhaps it might have been. It was a sick camp, a massive sprawling ward that filled the huge courtyard to bursting. No wonder the city streets had been so quiet. Many of the town’s denizens were here. Stephen knelt quickly next to a cot. The older woman tending its occupant barely glanced at him. He held a hand over the scarcely conscious man, briskly sketching a divining rune in the air. _

_ He heard feet racing towards him, then stuttering to a stop. “What is wrong with him?” He heard one of the group ask their guide, but the representative did not respond. _

_ Stephen replied for him, disgust twisting his tone. “He’s dying, that’s what’s wrong. These people have the same magical sickness affecting them that your planet did. They need to be healed, cleansed and re-aligned with your dimensional energies, or else they will continue to sicken and die.” _

_ Now the Eminiaran sorcerer looked chagrined, but his jaw still set belligerently. “There are too many of them. We do not have the resources to help so many. Even with your aid, we could not heal the hundreds of thousands that have fallen ill.” _

_ “And do you just plan to let them die, then? Do they mean so little to you that you would let us help your world, but none of these people?” Stephen felt little spikes of pain shoot up his fingers as his fists clenched, but he could not stop himself. _

_ The other sorcerer shrugged. “The needs of the majority must prevail. Why present you with such conflict, when it was most important that you lend your power to restoring the planet?” _

_ “No wonder your planet is failing, when her people are allowed to suffer like this.” Stephen could see, even understand, the kernel of truth in the representative’s words. But there were people  _ dying _ , and he could not bite back his anger entirely _ . _ “Will you let us help them?” _

_ “If you like, you may do so before you leave. But you know that any number you save will be inconsequential.” _

_ “To you, maybe. But not to them, or to their families.”  _

_ Stephen couldn’t be bothered to reply further. Instead, he turned back to the man, and let both of his hands hover in the air over his chest. Around him, he could sense at least a few of his colleagues doing the same, although not their guide. _

_ The next hours (he thought it was hours, although it could have been days) became an endless blur of triaging men, women, and children in various stages of morbidity. He held infants too weak to cry, and looked into the dull eyes of their mothers. Those who could be brought back he did, staggering on to kneel next to yet another pallet of rags. Eventually the Cloak was the only thing holding him up. His hands ached so badly that he could barely twist them into the sigils needed to purge each victim. _

_ As he stumbled back to his feet, practically swaying in place out of sheer exhaustion, he finally felt another person place their hands on his shoulders. “Stephen. Enough. We are all beyond tired, and it is time to leave. We will see what we can do to send aid to these people, once we have returned home. This idiot is yammering that we are not welcome to return, but perhaps we can petition their council directly.” _

_ It took a moment for his colleague’s words to sink in. He didn’t think he had ever been this tired before. “Not welcome? But they need all of the sorcerers they can get, to help these people.” _

_ “I know.” The voice was gentle. “But we can’t do anything more here. They are a proud people, and set in their ways. We will just have to hope they see reason, eventually.” _

_ As the hands steered him away from the market, and the screams and moans behind him faded, Stephen closed his eyes and cried. _

_ \-- _

For the second time in hours (although who knew how long he had been here), Wong felt tears prick the corners of his own eyes. Finished with his story, Stephen lowered his gaze to the ground. It leapt upward, however, as Wong stood determinedly and strode around the low tea table. Placing a hand under Stephen’s elbow, he gently levered the other man to his feet. Then he wrapped both arms around Stephen’s slender frame.

“You idiot. You could have killed yourself, expending energy like that. I thought you had.”

“Nope.” Stephen’s smile was watery. “Still here. But Wong, I can’t take it anymore. It never ends. The death, the injustice. Playing God with other people’s destinies. It makes me a coward, but I decided that I’d rather stay here than face that again.”

Wong took a shuddering breath, and he felt Stephen tremble ever so slightly in his arms. This was the moment of truth. He’d never thought that he’d see the day when Stephen Strange reached his breaking point. But he also knew that it was fallacy to believe any being incapable of doing so. And given even what he knew of Stephen’s experiences (and he suspected he knew only the half of them), he could be surprised only that it had taken this long.

So he could speak his next words honestly. “I understand.”

And those words were like an absolution, as he felt Stephen relax against him. Gently, he used one hand to tip the other sorcerer’s chin up from where it had been pressed against Wong’s shoulder. “I could stay here with you.”

Stephen smiled. “I would like that, but can’t allow it. You won’t survive if you stay here, disconnected from your physical body.”

“Stephen.” Wong made sure to lock gazes with his partner, letting his eyes convey the seriousness of his words. “I don’t want to. Not without you.”

Wong watched as the other man’s eyes grew clouded, grey and green overtaking the blue of the summer sky. “I can’t go back. I can’t give any more, not right now. Maybe not ever.”

“You’ve given enough.” Wong let his tone carry the full weight of his conviction. For a moment, he paused, contemplating, spinning scenarios in his mind. “If you didn’t have to, would you come back with me? I can’t give you back your parents’ farm, but we could find another like it. Or an apartment in New York, or even your own quarters at the Sanctum or Kamar-Taj.”

Now Stephen’s gaze was full of wonder, and Wong felt his heart melt at the gratitude he saw there. As if Stephen found it a miracle that he would not be tossed out on the streets again, after everything he had sacrificed for their order.

“But I was named Sorcerer Supreme. And that office is for life.”

“Not always.” Wong shrugged. “There is precedent. Trust me, I’m a librarian.”

Stephen laughed, and the sound was as clear and joyous as prayer bells ringing. Wong continued. “You’ve been willing to give up everything, and more than once. It’s the least our order can do in return. If I have to fight Kamar-Taj on this, I will.”

“Okay, okay. I trust you. Vishanti, I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you, too, Stephen.” The kiss they shared was short, but sweet as honey and as tender as the new buds that promised to blossom on the rhododendron’s leafy boughs. 

“So how do we get back? I confess that this entire mental construct was more an instinctual reaction than a planned vacation. Do I need to tap my heels together three times, or do you have a better plan?”

\--

“Master Wong!”

Waking to the cool night air felt like being drenched in a bucket of ice water. Wong’s head was swimming, but a cursory inventory seemed to reveal no permanent harm. Blinking against the disorientation, Wong staggered to his feet, cursing quietly under his breath. He felt Illyana’s hand on his arm.

“I am...mostly alright. Stephen.” 

He stumbled the few feet to the pallet, and then sank back to his knees at Stephen’s side. Vishanti, please let it have worked. Let him wake up. He felt Illyana sit down, much more gracefully, to his right. She reached out a hand to gently shake her other mentor’s shoulder.

“Master Strange?”

Wong felt frozen in place. What if it had all been a dream, his mind’s bizarre way of dealing with the fear and loss? Then he saw the other man’s eyelids flutter, once, twice. His heart felt like it might break free of his chest, so great was his relief.

“Wong?” 

Stephen’s voice was hoarse, and as Wong helped him sit up, he felt as light as a feather. There were more lines at the corners of his eyes than there had been four months ago, and the silver at his temples had crept a little further. But his aura, although not its usual brilliance, was pulsing steadily. Wong thought it was quite possibly the most beautiful sight he had seen in all his travels through the Multiverse.

“Here. We’re back. It’s going to be alright.” He ignored Illyana’s questioning glance. There would be time for explanations later.

“Yeah. There really is no place like home.”

\--

Illyana did eventually get the full (or mostly full) story of what had happened, both on Eminiar and in Stephen’s mind. Wong shared it with her over tea, before departing to Kamar-Taj to brief the other masters. They wanted to speak with Stephen as well, after, but fortunately it turned out that Wong did not need to do any fighting. All of their lives were demanding and dangerous, and no one could argue that Stephen had earned his respite. 

He wasn’t the same, that much was obvious. Illyana had been sadly distant due to her posting, but she had a feeling that Eminiar was only the culmination in a long line of insults. Regardless, Stephen seemed not so much broken as empty. He puttered around the Sanctum, tending to the herbs and the books. He read, and he kept Wong company. Sometimes, he would join Illyana on her walks through the city.

Occasionally he would stare off into the distance, as if listening to sounds or looking at vistas that were not there, either to Illyana’s eyes or her magical senses. At those times, Illyana would see Wong watching, his brow furrowed with concern. But Stephen never left again.

And slowly, he started to come back to himself. Illyana found him meditating in a patch of sunlight cast by an uncurtained window, sigils spinning lazy patterns in the air around him. The sheer power in that display, muted and fractured though it was, made her back out slowly and close the door behind her. Wong moved more purposefully around the Sanctum. He cajoled Stephen into accompanying him to Kamar-Taj to review the new initiates, and they walked together to the deli every Wednesday.

Illyana herself enjoyed the break from her more practical labors of the past two years. She helped Wong catalogue some of the artifacts she had unearthed with Master Jones in North Africa. Several new discoveries required a rather extensive foray into the Sanctum’s records, as well as consultations with a station in South America and the main library in Kamar-Taj.

It was a comfortable existence. Illyana knew it was the nature of their calling that it would not last, but she enjoyed it fully while it did. She felt at home in a way that she had not done since she was an apprentice, but enjoyed the new camaraderie that she shared with her two former mentors.

\--

Illyana was sitting at the kitchen table, wrestling with a very old parchment in particularly illegible Sanskrit, when Wong returned. Stephen was seated across from her: cup of tea at his elbow, reading glasses perched on his nose, and book on medieval healing spells open in front of him. The Cloak, which had been curled on a chair in front of the stove, perked up as the first sparks cascaded to the kitchen floor from the opening portal.

Illyana sprang to her feet when she saw Wong step through. The other master’s robes were dishevelled and soot stained, and there was a sluggishly bleeding gash at his temple. In her peripheral vision, she saw that Stephen had also gotten to his feet, book and glasses vanished.

“Illyana, I need you to come with me. Everyone we can muster is wanted for this fight. Some minor demon has decided that he’s done with being minor, and managed to open a rift directly into one of the Circles of Hell. We’ve sealed everything into the Mirror Dimension for now, but we have to close that rift.”

“Then what are we waiting for?”

Illyana started, and saw Wong do the same. For the first time in the months since his return, Stephen was wearing his blue sorcerer’s robes, the Cloak fastened around his neck. Almost reverently, he raised a hand that trembled only slightly more than usual, and the Eye popped into existence above it. His fingers closed around the pendant slowly, like a child learning a new language.

“Stephen, are you sure? You owe us nothing.” Wong’s voice was forceful, as if he was prepared to silence anyone who protested otherwise.

“I owe you everything, really.” Stephen smiled, bittersweet. “But that’s not why I’m doing this. I needed this breathing space, and will be forever grateful that you fought to give it to me. But it’s time for me to return. Just knowing that I did not have to, that I could take the time that was necessary, made all the difference.”

He settled the Eye around his neck, where it clinked gently against the brass ring on its chain. “Now let’s go do our job.”

FINIS


End file.
